Ares stared in disbelief as Rush subdued him effortlessly, without using a single weapon—barehanded, yet utterly overpowering. Ares found himself completely immobilized, unable to move even an inch.
"This is impossible…"
Rush sneered coldly. "What's so impossible about it? We're both Level Eight espers. Your strength and defense may have evolved, but it seems my psychic abilities have outmatched yours." He turned to Rice and said, "The rest is up to you. Burn this bastard to ashes."
Rice let out a hearty laugh. "Ha! Rush, working with you has been a damn pleasure. Ares, remember this well—this time next year will mark the anniversary of your demise. Feel the wrath of fire. I'll purify your filthy soul with these flames." As he spoke, twin infernos burst to life in his palms, and he began striding slowly toward Ares.
The searing heat was enough to melt steel. Even for a Level Eight esper like Ares, being enveloped by such fire would leave nothing but a charred corpse.
Ares bellowed desperately toward Black Dragon. "Damn it—Black Dragon! Help me!"
Black Dragon glanced at Rice, his brow furrowing. Without a word, several of his tendrils lashed out, wrapping tightly around Dirt Dog's legs. With a sharp tug, he yanked him to the ground. Dirt Dog was formidable at mid to long range, but in close quarters, he was no match for Black Dragon, whose strength lay precisely in melee combat.
Without giving Dirt Dog a moment to recover, Black Dragon flung him with brute force toward Rice.
Dirt Dog let out a grunt, caught off guard, and crashed into Rice with a resounding thud.
The two tumbled to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, Rice cursed, "You trying to kill me, you mutt?!"
Dirt Dog's expression was cold. "Damn it. That wasn't my idea." Then, the missile pods on his back fired in rapid succession, aiming directly at Black Dragon, who had hurled him like a toy.
Caught unprepared, Black Dragon had no choice but to retreat hastily, his dark tendrils flailing wildly, swatting at the incoming projectiles.
One of the tendrils struck a missile mid-air, triggering a powerful explosion that tore the appendage apart. Though flexible and deadly, the tendrils lacked the durability of Black Dragon's core body. They couldn't withstand such force—one missile was enough to shatter them, sometimes even two or three at once.
Seeing that Dirt Dog's target remained Black Dragon, Ares let out a quiet sigh of relief.
But at that moment, Old White—whose arm had been blown off in a previous clash—suddenly stood. His left hand clenched with gathering energy, he swung a savage punch toward Ares's cheek.
"Son of a bitch! Still grinning, are you?!"
No one expected such resilience. Despite the excruciating pain of his severed arm, Old White's punch sent Ares crashing to the ground.
His strength was monstrous—had that blow struck a normal human, it would've shattered their skull. Fortunately, Ares's defensive abilities lessened the damage, though the force was still immense.
Yet Old White didn't stop there. With his injured body, he crouched beside the fallen Ares.
Rush, also injured, kept Ares pinned down with his psychic powers.
Then, the towering brawler raised his bloodied left fist and smashed it down again into Ares's face. The blow cracked the concrete beneath Ares's skull.
Even Old White's fist had split open from the impact, blood dripping freely—but he didn't relent. Blow after thunderous blow landed on Ares's face, each thud echoing with grim finality.
Rush, witnessing the savage display, couldn't help but be taken aback. He noticed the pavement beneath Ares's head had begun to cave in, spiderwebbed with fractures.
Nearby, Rice glanced toward the ongoing clash between Dirt Dog and Black Dragon. With a flick of his hand, he ignited another burst of flame and charged toward the fray.
Despite Dirt Dog's arsenal, his weapons were limited. Effective against vehicles or infantry, yes—but against the bizarrely mutated body of Black Dragon, they had little effect. Even after destroying dozens of tendrils, dozens more remained.
Realizing that Rush and Old White had Ares handled, Rice rushed to support Dirt Dog.
Old White kept pummeling Ares's face. By now, it was drenched in blood—whether it belonged to Ares or to Old White's own battered hand, even he wasn't sure.
His right arm hung limp and broken. After delivering dozens of punishing blows, the pain and fatigue finally forced him to collapse beside Ares, gasping for breath.
Rush walked over, glanced down at the blood-soaked Ares, and chuckled. "Looks like you've finished him. Time for me to go help Dirt Dog take care of that monster."
Old White nodded weakly. "Yeah… after all those hits, there's no way this bastard's getting back up."
"Good. Then I'm not worried." With that, Rush turned and strode toward the Black Dragon.
But just a few steps away, a shadow stirred behind him. Ares—bleeding, broken, yet defiant—rose once more. His face was a crimson mask, and he stared at Old White, who was still gasping in disbelief beside him.
A cold, twisted smile curled Ares's lips. "I told you—I don't like being hurt. Now that you've done this to me… I have no excuse not to kill you."
Old White's eyes widened. "You're still alive? What the hell are you?!"
Despite his ruined body and shattered defenses, Ares stood firm. And worse—he looked ready to fight.
Without warning, Ares lashed out with a brutal kick to Old White's chest, sending him flying backward like a rag doll—swift, ruthless, and unstoppable.